


Past Three O'Clock

by splix



Category: War Horse (2011)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Domestic, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas, 1920.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Three O'Clock

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Roses of Picardy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/415197) by [splix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix). 



> Many thanks to kimberlite for friendship and stellar beta.
> 
> Now available in Chinese, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1112970). Thanks to kiii17 for the translation!

  
[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/splix/media/51ce66af-d34f-4f85-8ffa-f5bb1d031acb_zps9bf095c8.jpg.html)

 

Sleep; and my song shall build about your bed  
A paradise of dimness. You shall feel  
The folding of tired wings; and peace will dwell  
Throned in your silence: and one hour shall hold  
Summer, and midnight, and immensity  
Lulled to forgetfulness. For, where you dream,  
The stately gloom of foliage shall embower  
Your slumbering thought with tapestries of blue.  
And there shall be no memory of the sky,  
Nor sunlight with its cruelty of swords.  
But, to your soul that sinks from deep to deep  
Through drowned and glimmering colour, Time shall be  
Only slow rhythmic swaying; and your breath;  
And roses in the darkness; and my love.

\--- _Slumber-Song_ , Siegfried Sassoon

*

 

"You're certain he'll know what to do with it?" Jamie cast a doubtful eye over the bewildering array of boxes and jars on the counter in front of him.

The clerk, a young lady with hair as short as a boy's, nodded emphatically. "Any artist worth his salt will." She flicked a glance over Jamie's face and, seeing his evident consternation, gave him a reassuring smile. "And if he doesn't, why – simply have him pop round and we'll get him sorted. That's what we do. Shall I gift-wrap it all for you, sir?"

"I'd be grateful if you did – thanks very much," Jamie replied, and watched as the young lady deftly wrapped his purchases in paper gaily patterned in red and white stripes. He'd gone overboard, perhaps, but the clerk, a rather Bohemian type with her short hair and old-fashioned purple velvet dress, had maintained that those possessed by the artistic muse couldn't be expected to confine themselves to a drawing-paper book and pencils. Thus, he'd purchased a set of water-colours, some paint brushes, different sizes and weights of paper, pen and ink, some little canvases, several boxes of dry pigment, and a bottle of linseed oil. And the drawing-paper book and a few pencils. It was a bit extravagant, and Jamie wasn't sure that Jim actually wanted any of the stuff, but he'd been carried away by the Christmas spirit and the extraordinary persuasiveness of the clerk. 

"There you are, sir," the young woman said, sliding the parcels across the counter. "I'm sure he'll enjoy them. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Jamie said, replacing his hat and nodding cordially to the clerk. He gathered his packages up, balancing them with the little potted tree he'd bought earlier, and left the warm shop, shivering as he stepped into the frosty air. That morning, two days before Christmas, the weather had turned, the week-long dull, pelting rain transmuting into a fine snow. Now, at five o'clock, in the last waning daylight, the snow fell thickly from a soft violet-grey sky, turning Hampstead Heath into a fairyland, coating the trees and obscuring the dreary mud under a glittering white blanket.

The shops on the heath's outskirts, open late for Christmas customers, glowed with candles and wreaths and garlands of holly and box, the brightly coloured signs above the door swaying beneath new white caps of snow. Street vendors still roamed, pushing their carts hunched against the cold but calling out gamely to buy - sharp-smelling roasted chestnuts, hot peas in paper cones, plates of mussels and winkles with pepper and vinegar, old books, old clothes, knives sharpened, chairs mended. Slowly, it seemed, prosperity was returning to London.

As he passed Christ Church, the sound of voices raised in song drifted from within – a vaguely familiar tune, lively and jubilant, mingling with the sweet near-discordance of a pipe organ. Jamie stood listening for a moment before heaving the tree and his packages into a more comfortable configuration and moving on, humming along tunelessly to the choir's clear harmonies until they faded away altogether. Lengthening his stride, he covered the snowy ground toward home in good time. He let himself into his house, dropped his packages on the sofa, and dashed back out, collecting the post from the letter boxes before knocking on Jim's door and opening it to a burst of warmth and delicious fragrances and scratchy music. "Hello!"

"In here, Jamie!" 

Jamie hung his wet coat and hat on the stand, removed his overshoes, set the post on the hall table, and deposited the tree beside the door before walking into the parlour. "There you are. You look cosy."

Jim, surrounded by stacks of paper and bundled into a thick cream-coloured jumper, was curled on the sofa, an extraordinary feat considering the length of his legs. He had a blue pencil in one hand; another was tucked behind his ear, half lost in his curls, and there was a blue smudge on his nose. "'Thou hast speeded hither with the very extremest inch of possibility.'"

"Perhaps you could translate for the benefit of those of us lacking classical education."

"You're late." Jim grinned widely.

Jamie wrinkled his nose. "Apologies. Running errands."

"I suppose I shall have to forgive you, then. I just renewed the fire a bit. Is it still snowing?"

"More than ever."

"Did you find a tree?"

"I did," Jamie replied proudly, and went to the hall, fetching it and showing it to Jim. "It's a bit damp yet – I'll just put it back." 

"Ah, it's beautiful!" Jim said, beaming. "Well done, Jamie. Shall we trim it this evening, or would you rather wait until tomorrow?"

"Whatever you like, old man." Jamie placed the little fir beside the door, then went to the chair beside the fire and dropped into it. He retrieved his slippers from the hearth and unlaced his boots to ease his feet into delightful warmth. "Ahh, that feels good. I haven't much experience with Christmas trees, as I told you."

"It still baffles me no end," Jim said, putting the pencil in his hand behind his other ear. "I say, don't I rate a proper hello?"

"You're barricaded behind all that paper. I doubt I'd fit. Besides, I'm quite comfortable now." Jamie stretched his legs out, biting back a grin. "Freezing outside, you know. This feels marvellous."

"Oh, I see. You're going to make me work, are you?" Jim's tone was petulant, but his eyes twinkled as he rose to his feet and crossed the carpet to lean over Jamie, resting his hands on the arms of the chair. "What about now?"

"Hello," Jamie said softly, and tugged on the bottom of the thick woollen jumper to pull Jim closer and kiss him. Jim's face was flushed from the fire, his mouth gloriously receptive. Jamie cupped Jim's cheek, revelling in his warmth.

Jim put his hands on either side of Jamie's head, then pulled back. "Goodness, your poor ears – they're _frozen_." He pressed his warm hands against Jamie's ears. "Would you like some tea?"

"If it's half whisky, then yes, by all means. Actually, I'll skip the tea."

"Mrs. Taylor made an Irish stew," Jim called over his shoulder, heading into the kitchen. "It's warming in the oven, if you're hungry."

"Famished." He beamed at Jim re-entering the parlour bearing two glasses with honey-coloured liquid. "What sort of day did you have?"

Jim handed Jamie a glass and touched them together. " _Slainte_." He sipped, then sighed. "Ah, that's nice. Me? Oh, Lord. My eyes are crossing trying to read Bolton's manuscript. If money wasn't so tight I'd insist on hiring a typist. His penmanship –" Jim crossed to the sofa and brought back a sheet of blotted handwriting. "Abominable. And he's a terrible speller. But George says he's a genius. I'm only thirty pages in and genius isn't evident yet, but I'm a slow learner." He grinned. "And how was your day?"

Jamie grimaced. "Three cheques. Seven hundred pounds total."

"Why, that's marvellous, Jamie!" Jim thumped down on the sofa and let the sheet of paper fall atop one of the piles. "So much money – what will you do with it all?"

"Good question. I can use it to help the fellows who are still waiting for work, but it's _jobs_ they need, not…not cash thrown at them. They want to earn their money. Charity's an affront to their dignity."

"At least people are thinking of them. And I'm sure some of the men and their families can use the cash."

"I reckon that's true," Jamie conceded grudgingly. "Soames still hasn't found work, and he's got four little ones and no wife, and that Partridge fellow has an invalid mother to support, to name just two…still, it would be better if they had work, not charity. And it's not as if people only need to eat and be warm at Christmastime – it's all year round."

Jim smiled. "You dear old crosspatch. It's a gift horse, Jamie, and you know what they say about gift horses." He stretched his legs out. "Perhaps you should start some sort of business that employs veterans."

"Along with Saint Sebastian? As if I haven't got enough to do." Jamie finished his drink and sighed contentedly, glancing around the parlour filled with castoffs from Jim's mother and the startling, at times frankly ugly modern art Jim had begun to collect in the past year. The jagged lines and ferocious blobs of colour contrasted oddly with the cosy furnishings, but Jim seemed to like them and Jamie was no art expert – his own tastes ran to Turner landscapes and pictures of sea battles and were well represented in his house next door. His furnishings were also family castoffs, but considerably more expensive and ornate – and yet he was far more at home in Jim's shabbier surroundings, worn leather sofas and faded, patched flowered carpets. Though Jamie's house was larger than Jim's one-storey flat, it was the flat they lived in; Jamie's house was a glorified wardrobe. Opulence and wealth no longer sat comfortably upon his shoulders, if they ever had, and whether that was due to the nature of his work or the steadfast honesty of Jim's influence he didn't know, but he felt it keenly. It would have been more practical, not to mention less expensive, to simply merge quarters, but appearances dictated otherwise.

"Shall we wager on it? I'm willing to bet that you have a new venture before this time next year."

"Hm. I'll take that bet. What shall we wager?"

A grin full of mischief crossed Jim's face. "Anything you like."

"That's quite reckless of you," Jamie said, feeling warmth in his chest that was more than the glow of whisky. "Anything?"

"Anything."

"Done, then." Jamie got to his feet and crossed to the couch. He leant down and kissed Jim's forehead, then his lips. "I shan't tell you what it is until I've won."

Jim laughed and pulled Jamie down to sit next to him. "Just clear that paper off, Jamie. I'm sick of looking at it." He tugged at Jamie's belt a bit. "I'm very good at guessing these things. You never answered my question, by the way – shall we trim the tree tonight or tomorrow?"

"Seems more appropriate to wait until Christmas Eve, doesn't it?"

"Not that you would know!" Jim exclaimed. "You've really never had a Christmas tree?"

"Father didn't like Christmas. He only celebrated the New Year. He thought Christmas and Christmas trees were…ah, Papist." Jamie flushed. "Sorry."

"And the Jesuits at my school said they were pagan." 

"Father wouldn't have approved of that, either."

"Well, Christian or pagan, I think you'll enjoy it. We used to make our own decorations, you know – Mother was especially good at it. One year she had a carpenter cut out flat wooden discs about the size of one's palm," Jim said, holding up his hand to demonstrate, "and then she painted them with roses, one rose to a disc. Red roses. Lovely." He smiled a little sadly.

"And how do you propose to decorate tomorrow?" Jamie asked, wanting to dispel Jim's melancholy. "I haven't got anything at all appropriate. Have you a secret trove of Christmas decorations?"

"Oh, it's a matter of nothing, Jamie. It's such a tiny tree, it won't take any time at all. I've got silver paper from that lovely box of oranges Charlotte sent – we can make paper chains and little hanging ornaments of holly berries, and I'll run out and find some red and white ribbon for bows. It'll be lovely, you'll see."

Jamie rested his hand on Jim's tweed-clad knee. For six years they'd known each other, and had loved each other for a time only a little less distant, and yet Jamie still found himself surprised at odd moments at the depth of his own passion, that Jim had wrought such extraordinary change in his heart. If at times he still stiffened at Jim's open-hearted effusiveness, he knew, and Jim knew, that he was unbending, that they were beginning to twine round each other like greening vines. "In that case, I'm quite looking forward to it. Oh!" He leapt to his feet. "Talking of Charlie, I brought the post in – we've a letter or card from her." Jamie went to the hall table and brought the post back, dropping onto the sofa once more. "Here it is."

"From Nice," Jim said, opening the envelope and withdrawing a greeting-card of paper lace. "Just a short note – happy Christmas, she's planning to return in May, tell Pansy to write." He turned the card over to examine it. "I confess I'm glad Pansy didn't go with her. She's altogether too young to go traipsing about Europe with only Charlie for a chaperone."

Jamie bit back a smile at this scrap of brotherly disapproval. "She's twenty-two."

"As I said. Far too young."

"Mm." Jamie shuffled through the rest of the post, then paused and drew a sharp breath. He tucked the topmost piece of mail beneath the others.

"What's wrong?" Jim asked.

Jamie shook his head. "Nothing, nothing at all."

"Let's see the rest of that." Jim tugged at the envelopes in Jamie's hand.

"Jim, I think –" Jamie held on to the letters, but Jim playfully pulled them out of his hands.

"Don't be greedy, old man!" Jim began to leaf through them. "Who's Alex McCourt? Friend of yours?"

"Yes," Jamie said through numb lips. "Sandhurst."

"I see. Oh, here's one from Mrs. DeMille. And the Kings. Oh, and from Paolo DiMercurio, he's the one who gave me that painting in the kitchen. Mrs. DiMercurio brought that lovely maccaroni dish with the tomatoes, do you remember? Very nice. And here –" Jim broke off and stared down at the letter in his hand. It was a greeting-card with his parents' address written neatly on the front. Across the tidy penmanship were angry capitals stamped in smearing red ink: REFUSED.

Jamie swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat. He'd seen the card addressed on a pile a week ago and had resisted the temptation to stuff it in the nearest bin, fearing this very result. Jim had made earnest attempts to reconcile with his parents, but they refused to see or speak to him. Now he wished he'd thrown the damned thing away. Better to have Jim think that they'd at least accepted the card.

Jim heaved a little sigh. "Oh." He turned the card over in his hand, struggling to maintain his composure. His mouth tightened into a grim line, and bright spots of colour appeared on his cheeks. A little chuckle hitched out of his chest, and he tapped the card on his knee. "Well. I suppose it was a long shot."

Difficult as it was to check the words that rose to his lips, Jamie managed. _To hell with them, they don't deserve you –_ what good would those words do now? They certainly wouldn't make Jim feel any better, no matter how true they were. One would think, at Christmastime, that his parents might try to mend fences, but evidently outrage was more powerful than parental devotion. Jamie placed a tentative hand on Jim's back and caressed it in small circles. "I'm sorry about it, Jim."

"No, no, it's –" Jim shook his head and tried to smile at Jamie. "I can't say I'm surprised. I just thought that perhaps – well, it doesn't much matter." He folded the envelope in half and stood, stuffing it into his trouser pocket. "Actually, I've got this unmerciful headache. It's been building up all day. This rotten manuscript, it's giving me fits and I believe it's finally vanquished me. I think I might have a bit of a lie-down."

Jamie rose as well. "Look here, Jim…." He trailed off uncertainly. He knew a subterfuge when he heard one, and Jim was an unusually terrible liar. "Don't let them spoil your Christmas."

"Oh, I won't." Jim smiled brightly. "As I said, it was a long shot. Done and dusted now." He took the newspaper from another pile on the sofa and handed it to Jamie. "I'm just going to nip out for a bit of air, and then sleep a while. You read."

"Shall I come?"

"No. Stay here and warm up." Jim brought one of Jamie's hands to his lips and kissed it gently. 

"Maybe a bite of dinner," Jamie said.

"Not hungry. I ate an enormous amount of last night's pudding an hour ago." Jim pressed Jamie into the scratchy wing chair beside the fire and switched on the electric lamp. He brushed the back of his hand over Jamie's cheek. "Come on, don't look so worried. I'm fine. Just a headache."

"All right." Jamie watched as Jim left the room, stifling the impulse to rush after him. Silly – if Jim needed to be alone, it wasn't for Jamie to crowd him. Everyone needed to retreat once in a while, even Jim, usually the most friendly and gregarious of souls.

Bloody Arthur and Claire Nicholls – was it so impossible to stem the tide of their anger that they couldn't simply accept a Christmas greeting-card? Jamie's own parents might have been indifferent and neglectful, but that was infinitely preferable to outright insults. They'd even extended Jim an invitation to their annual Hogmanay festivities, though owing to the likelihood of Jamie's brother Philip attending, Jamie had declined the invitation. Possibly every family had one person who was hateful, but Philip had always been hateful, whereas Jim's parents had adored him until the moment he'd confessed to a preference for men. And evidently, they still felt the need to remind him of the cessation of their love.

The front door opened and closed with a quiet click, and Jim waved at Jamie as he passed into the bedroom. "Don't forget the stew," he called softly.

"Righto. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you." The bedroom door closed, and Jamie was left on his own.

Piano music poured out of the gramophone, slow and serene, and came to a stop, leaving only a faint repetitive hiss. Jamie got up and removed the needle. He stared out the window for a bit, then felt for his cigarettes and headed for the door.

As he struggled into his coat and overshoes, he noticed that the tree was missing from the hall. Frowning, he stepped outside into the still thickly-falling snow and saw it on the pavement – not overturned or haphazardly flung, but placed neatly, carefully, ready for whomever might find themselves in need of a Christmas tree.

_Well, that won't do at all._

Jamie picked the tree up and carried it to the back garden, setting it inside the tiny iron and glass summerhouse they hadn't managed to use yet. He took a few handfuls of snow and packed it into the pot. 

It wasn't like Jim to be so impulsive – how deep his hurt must have run. Under his breath, Jamie cursed Mr and Mrs Nicholls and lit his cigarette, watching the snow fall from the violet sky.

 

*

 

He awoke to see Jim standing at the bedroom window, his profile illumined by the faint glow of the street lamp. "Jim?"

Jim's silhouette shifted a bit. "Did I disturb you?"

"No." Jamie sat up. "Is it still snowing?"

"Oh, yes. It's beautiful."

"Let's have a look." Jamie climbed out of bed and went to the window. He rubbed at it, erasing the condensation, and gazed out at the wintry landscape. "Dear me."

"Isn't it lovely?"

"I think I'll take the tram tomorrow." He moved closer to Jim and slipped an arm about his waist, pulling him close. "How's your head?"

"Better. Thank you." Jim squeezed Jamie's hand.

"It's so late, and you're half-frozen. You haven't even got your dressing-gown on. Come back to bed." Jamie gently steered Jim toward the bed and urged him down, then climbed in beside him, pulling the bedclothes up. "Oh, dear God, your feet."

Jim pulled his icy feet away. "Sorry."

"No, no, bring them back. Come on, let's have them." Jamie hooked a leg over Jim's ankles and rubbed his own feet against Jim's, grimacing at the cold. "Can't have you with chilblains and consumption on Christmas Eve."

Jim laughed softly. "No, you're right, I –" He turned away, curling up tightly.

Jamie felt, rather than saw, the trembling of Jim's shoulders and realised it wasn't owing to the cold. "Oh, Jim –" He wrapped an arm round Jim's waist again and fitted his body against Jim's back. Planting a kiss on the nape of Jim's neck, he whispered, "Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?"

"Not unless you can get my parents to stop hating me," Jim replied, and let out a bitter laugh that chilled Jamie's heart. "Oh, dash it, Jamie, I'm sorry."

"You've nothing to apologise for."

"Why won't they…." Jim's voice was swallowed momentarily as he turned his face to the pillow. His shoulders heaved again, and he was still for a moment. Finally, he shifted to face Jamie. "Is it so dreadful, Jamie? You and me? We're not hurting anybody. We're not conspicuous. I haven't changed so much. I'm still the same man I was six years ago. Not…not manly enough, though, I suppose."

"You're the most splendid man I know," Jamie said, and traced his fingers over Jim's wet cheek.

"They're ashamed of me. I've never been a source of shame. It's…." Jim took a shaky breath. "I shall have to get used to it, I reckon, but it's not easy. I thought if I sent them a Christmas card, they might unbend a bit. I hadn't planned to visit, but just a card. Pansy told me not to, but more fool me."

"More fool them," Jamie said fiercely. "I'm sorry, Jim. I promised myself I shouldn't talk against them, but I can't bear to see you treated so unjustly. They don't deserve the least bit of you, and if they were here right now I'd tell them so."

"If they were here and saw us sharing a bed they'd likely suffer fits of apoplexy." Jim smiled wryly.

"Well. Problem solved, then."

Jim chortled. "You're awful!" He sighed and rested his forehead on Jamie's shoulder. "Do you ever wonder, sometimes, if we really are committing a sin?"

"No," Jamie said flatly. He rubbed Jim's back to take some of the sting out of his retort. "Look here, Jim. I can't think that God really cares that we're buggering each other. He's got a lot more to worry about. As you say, we're not hurting anybody. _That's_ sin, isn't it? You're the one with the religious education. You ought to know better than I do."

"We got vague admonitions against self-abuse," Jim said. "Beyond that, there wasn't much lecturing on matters of intimacy."

"Prudent of them, if they weren't allowed to marry," Jamie commented.

"Or they were indulging themselves. I did wonder at times." Jim pulled Jamie closer. "I'm sorry. I wish I could hate them, or dismiss them. But I can't. I'll tell you this, though: there's no question as to my choice. If they hate me for it…." He let out a shuddering sigh. "So be it."

Had Jamie been afraid that Jim would choose his parents? It seemed so, if the sudden surge of relief that overwhelmed him was any indication. An instant of guilt pierced him; it was damned selfish, but he couldn't help himself. Where and what would he be if not for his dear Jim? He gathered Jim tightly and kissed his mouth. "You're warmer now," he whispered against Jim's lips.

"Make me warmer still." Jim slipped a hand into the trousers of Jamie's pyjamas. "And I'll return the favour." He stroked and fondled, slow, rhythmic, in time with the rise and fall of Jamie's chest.

Jamie moved his own hand down, caressing Jim intimately. "How's that, then?"

"Warm. Lovely. Ah…ah, Jamie. Yes, yes."

 

*

 

Afterward, they lay together in reverential silence, neither ready to resume their slumber. Finally Jamie spoke. "I saw the tree outside."

"Oh, Jamie, I'm so sorry. That was ruddy childish of me. It was for both of us. My parents' unkindness isn't a justification for my own."

"Never mind. I rescued it. It's in the summerhouse."

"That's my clever chap. Thanks, Jamie." Jim rubbed the palm of his hand up and down Jamie's belly. "Let's stay home tomorrow and trim it."

"Can't. I've still a few things to sort out at the office."

"Those cheques?"

"Yes. Pansy and I will be ragged tomorrow trying to disburse funds." Jamie sighed. "Well, nothing for it."

"I still think you ought to start a business for some of the fellows. You could pour those donations into something lucrative. Wouldn't it be convenient to have everything in one place?"

"Everything? Like what, may I ask?"

"Since you ask…there's always the press."

"Wentworth's?"

"Mm. Since Leonard died, though, there's only me and George at the helm, and we need capital. We're practically doing it all ourselves since most of the employees fled for the hills. George was setting type yesterday, and he's falling behind on his own work. We need typesetters, press men, copy editors, couriers, secretaries – all sorts of jobs."

"All sorts," Jamie said thoughtfully. "Seems a bit limited…."

"Come to see us next Monday. You might be surprised. And wouldn't it be grand to work together?"

"You're extraordinarily persuasive. All right, I will. No promises, though. And right now I've got to sleep or I'll be miserable and bleary-eyed all day and I'll never hear the end of it from Pansy."

"Yes, sir." Jim kissed the tip of Jamie's nose. "Dear Jamie. Sleep well."

Jamie, pressed up against Jim, nodded tiredly, and thought that his gifts, expensive as they were, were no match for the offering of Jim's heart. 

_Dear Jim. My dear, dear Jim._

 

*

 

True to Jim's promise, the little tree was glorious, with silver-paper chains, dozens of tiny red bows, and little angels of white cardboard. Jim had even fashioned a star for the top of the tree out of silver tin, painstakingly cut down from a sheet donated by Morgan McGough, a former infantryman in Jamie's old "A" Company who was now a guildsman in the Worshipful Company of Tin Plate Workers. 

Jamie finished wrapping gauze round Jim's index finger. "He might have told me how sharp it was."

"Don't blame him. It's my own fault. It looks quite pretty, though, doesn't it?"

Jamie looked at the tree. "Yes. Yes, it rather does." He tilted his head to one side. "It's missing something, though."

"I can't think what! If we put so much as one more scrap of cotton-wool on it, it might collapse."

"Hm. Back in a flash." Jamie got up and dashed out of the flat into his own house. He retrieved the parcels he'd left the day before and hurried back outdoors, protecting the fragile paper from the snow as best he could. He stopped at the post boxes and retrieved the mail, tucking it against his chest before hastening back into the warmth of the flat. Unable to suppress a mischievous grin, he deposited the wrapped packages underneath the tree. They made a very presentable little pile, he thought.

"Why, Jamie!" Jim, his eyes shining, poked through the gifts with his good hand. "Who are these for?"

"You, of course. Don't touch!" he admonished Jim, swatting his hand away.

Jim laughed. "Well, wait here." He went into the bedroom and came back with a large flat package wrapped in white paper and decorated with silver ribbon. He rested it against the table legs. "I hope you'll like it."

"What is it?" Jamie demanded.

"That would be telling, wouldn't it? You'll have to wait until tomorrow." Jim shook his head. "All those gifts! Jamie, it's too much."

"Nonsense," Jamie said. He eyed the package curiously and sat on the sofa to admire the tree and sort through the post. He picked out copies of _The Strand_ and _London Magazine_ and handed them to Jim, keeping his own copy of _Horse and Hound_. "Yours. Oh, _Nag and Dog._ Splendid."

Jim thumped to the sofa beside Jamie. "What else?"

"Cards. These are yours."

"Ah. Let's hope they're –" Jim broke off and stared down at the card in his hand.

 _Christ, not another blow._ "What is it?"

"My mother," Jim said softly. "That's her handwriting." He turned the card over, then set it on his knee and awkwardly tore at the envelope with his good hand.

"Here, let me," Jamie said, and took the card from Jim's hand. He resisted the impulse to snatch it away and read it – if Claire Nicholls had dared to send Jim a separate admonishment, Jamie intended to write a letter of his own. Instead, he handed it to Jim, who pulled out the card and opened it. 

Something fell from the card into Jim's lap, and Jim grasped it with his good hand, obscuring it from Jamie's sight. The card's outside was innocuous – a group of carol singers gathered round a Christmas tree. The inside, though….

Jim closed the card and sat back on the sofa. Silently, he handed the card to Jamie.

Jamie opened the card. Inside was the printed sentiment _Greetings for a Happy Christmas_ , and beneath that was written _Your Mother_. Nothing more. Jamie pressed his lips together, unsure what to make of it.

Slowly, Jim opened his hand to reveal a flat wooden circle, upon which was painted a near-perfect red rose. A looped red ribbon was pasted to its top. Jim looked at it for a moment, then closed his hand again. A muscle in his cheek worked, and he screwed his eyes shut.

It took Jamie a moment, but at last he understood, or thought he did: an olive branch, disguised as a rose.

Jim opened his eyes and smiled, his sweet lavish smile. "I told you they were pretty."

"Shall I put it on the tree?"

"Please."

Jamie got to his feet and hung the little painted disc on the tree. He went back to the sofa, sat, and put his arm round Jim's shoulder. "It didn't collapse."

"I may have exaggerated slightly."

"Possibly."

Jim rested his head against Jamie's shoulder. "I expect she sent it without my father knowing."

"Never mind," Jamie said. "It's a start."

"It is." Jim wound his arms round Jamie's neck and brought him close for a kiss. "You're a brick, my dear man."

Jamie lingered at the warmth and softness of Jim's mouth, the sharp line of his jaw, the familiar and always enticing length of his body. "Happy Christmas, Jim."

"God bless us," Jim said. "Every one."

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Christmas Carol "Past Three O' Clock" which can be found [here.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjaN7DB7Pd4)
> 
> Jim's quote is from Shakespeare's _Henry IV_.
> 
> Happy holidays, all.


End file.
